


just move with me, darlin'

by officialgeorgeglass



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 11:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialgeorgeglass/pseuds/officialgeorgeglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a long time, Blue Sargent has had only two rules:</p><p>1: Stay away from boys, because there are bigger things to worry about.<br/>2: Stay away from The Raven Boys, because they’re pricks.</p><p>Of course, that all falls to shit within a few hours of them sliding into a booth at Nino’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

For a long time, Blue Sargent has had only two rules:

 

  1. Stay away from boys, because there are bigger things to worry about.

  2. Stay away from The Raven Boys, because they’re pricks.




 

Of course, that all falls to shit within a few hours of  them sliding into a booth at Nino’s. Blue ignores the chime of the door opening, the footsteps and loud banter echoing off the linoleum, focuses on the boxes that need stacking for delivery. The air smells of cheese and oregano and half-baked dough as it flows out from the kitchen, hot and sticking to her skin like glue. The collar of her work polo shirt scratches against her skin uncomfortably. She ducks beneath the counter with ease, straightening her apron as she stands back up and surveys the room.

 

That’s when she sees them.

 

Blue rolls her eyes and turns, searching desperately for more waitstaff. Her eyes catch on the familiar dirty-white-and-faded-red of the Nino’s shirts through the window, and drift upwards to focus on the smoke floating lazily into the steadily darkening sky. Irritation boils in her stomach, and she’s just about ready to kick a chair over when there’s a holler from the only occupied table in the diner.

 

“Oi, you going to take our order or what?”

 

Just about no longer settles it. She is well beyond kicking a table. Anger burns dangerously just below her skin, and she paints on a smile, stalks towards the voice. She hears the scuffling, the muffled whacks and whisper-shouted reprimands. She stops at the head of their table, stiling smiling manically. Furthest from her is a boy whose pallor makes him look almost ill, slightly too grey to be normal. He holds a sweater-covered hand over his mouth in an attempt to stifle his giggles. On his right sits a tawny head of hair - the face of its owner is hidden by his arms and the table it is pressed against. Blue is sure her mingled pity and disgust is visible on her face for the moment she looks at him - the tables are coated in a thin layer of grime at the best of times. Opposite him sits a boy made up of a severe looking buzzcut and hard angles, glowering at her and rubbing his arm. It’s comical, really - a rottweiler looking put-out, or a lion silenced mid-roar. She reminds herself not to laugh, that these are paying customers - high paying customers. They’ve been coming to Nino’s for as long as she’s worked there, private-school-educated, trust-fund babies of the highest order. Blue makes a point of never serving them. Buzzcut’s behaviour is a prime example of why.

 

“Welcome to Nino’s, what can I get for you?” She asks, smiling extra wide at the glaring boy. Sweater-Hands starts giggling again, and she swears she hears a groan from the mess of hair still hiding in the table. The boy closest to her answers, drawing her attention from the glaring boy, ending their standoff. She can’t help her irritation at this, wishing she’d had the opportunity to make Buzzcut even more angry. Blue reaches up and pulls a pencil from behind her ear, fingers sliding along a tuft of aggressively short, wildly styled hair.

 

“We’d like two pepperonis - one with jalapenos, the other half mushrooms, and one just cheese.” There’s a sophistication to his voice that’s scary coming from the mouth of someone who can’t be more than seventeen, and an ageless shine in his assured smile. As he speaks, every head around the table turns to look at him in-sync, like planets aligning around their sun. Even Table-Face lifts his head enough to look at him. For a moment, Blue is dumbstruck by this. She focuses the confused energy into scribbling down the order.

 

“Say, shouldn’t you know our order by now? We’ve only been coming here since our freshman year.” The sophistication is still there, his smile good-natured, but in that instant, as she looks back up from her notepad, through his ridiculous wire-rimmed glasses, and into his eyes, Blue decides she despises the mystifying control this boy has, and loathes everything about him. It’s then that she notices he’s wearing a polo-shirt of his own free will. She has to physically bite her own tongue to keep back a snarky comment. Her expression sours.

 

Tawny Hair groans again and his head makes and audible whacking sound as it hits the table again. She smiles at Glasses, sickly sweet, and cocks her head. “You have? Funny, I don’t think I’ve ever served you before.” She feigns a shrug. “Any drinks with that?” The boy at the end giggles again, and Blue can’t help a smirk at the taken-aback expression that crosses Glasses’ face. There’s nothing Blue Sargent hates more than people who are pompous without realising it. They order four cokes (despite mumbled arguments from Table-Face), and Blue marks it down, tucks away her notepad, smiles too wide once more, and marches back to the kitchens, where she hands over the order along with a tirade of curses and violent gesticulation.

 

Gansey doesn’t see her again until he goes up to pay. 

 

(Blue refused point-blank to serve them on the grounds of emotional harassment. No one made her, figuring that the customers were more like to be emotionally harassed than she was.)

 

He’s handing over bills and rolling his lips together as he considers her for a moment, choppy hair and almond shaped eyes and snarky demeanour, everything about her an impossibly enigmatic mess. Gansey’s utterly at a loss with how to handle her. “Look, I’m not sure what I did wrong -” He starts, but is cut off by a scoff and a muttered  ‘Obviously.’  He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose and runs his fingertips over his eyelids, glasses slipping half down his nose. “I wanted to apologise. For Rona- the one who was rude. And for offending you, however that may have been. It’s only that Adam - y’see, the curly-hair, ridiculous cheekbones? Well, he thinks you’re cute, and Ronan was winding him up about it, and, well, he’s a good guy, I think you should-” All of a sudden she’s holding up a finger, somehow looking down on him despite being a good nine inches shorter, at least.

 

“I don’t date.” It’s a fact as it falls from her lips, and she shrugs one shoulder. “Sorry to disappoint your friend. If he ever wants to get a girl, I’d recommend he grows the courage to talk to one himself, though. That’s four dollars and twenty cents change.” She hands the cash over, and Gansey takes it, struck by the dismissal in her tone. He can’t think of anything more to say, so he leaves her with a quizzical expression, and a thousand questions racing in his mind.

  
  


Adam refuses a ride home from Gansey. He bought him a coke tonight already, he doesn’t want to cost him the gas money. He considers using the payphone across the street to call Ronan, and almost bursts into laughter - one, Ronan would never do him a favor, and two, to ask Ronan was to ask Gansey, at this time. Besides, he doubted he even had enough coins to make a call longer than ten seconds. Instead he stands in the cold, pacing under a streetlight that casts shadows over the dark circles under his eyes and in the caverns under his cheekbones. Occasionally he glances up through the window of the diner and catches a flash of short, dark hair shooting about. He asks himself repeatedly why he’s bothering to stick around - she wasn’t interested, she’ll think he’s some kind of stalker, it’s fucking  freezing out and he should really go home if he doesn’t want to get mugged. But something in him holds him there, goosepimples covering his skin despite the layers of clothing he wears, bathing himself in the orange light. Ronan’s going to be such a dick about this when he turns up to school even more exhausted than normal, with nothing to show for it.

 

He’s rubbing his hands together, still pacing, when he turns and she’s suddenly right there. He freezes mid-step, and smiles awkwardly before opening his mouth to speak.

 

“Adam, is it?” The girl beats him to it, pulling an earbud down. “I told Polo-Shirt I’m not interested, did he not pass on the message?”

 

“O-oh, no, uh,” Adam stutters, and immediately hates himself for it. “Gansey, he, uh, he really has no idea, about the world. He’s had it all since he was born. And Ronan - well, Ronan’s just a dick.” The awkward smile is back. The girl doesn’t seem impressed with his apology. She hasn’t seemed impressed with much at all, tonight. Adam wonders what it is, then, that makes him want to keep talking to her. “We’re all strung pretty tight, today. Kavi-our drummer, he quit, yesterday, and we have some huge gigs coming up. So yeah, I just wanted to, um, apologise, again…” He shrugged.

 

The girl was frowning at him, as though she couldn’t quite figure him out - Gansey and Ronan, she’d given nothing but contempt in her gaze. To Adam, there was confusion, and a softness there hadn’t been with the others. “You didn’t have it all, then? How come you’re one of them?” She asks, and Adam lifts an arm and scratches the back of his neck. “Long story. Boring, really.” He mumbles, embarrassed, and looks away. The girl drops it.

 

There is silence, tense and awkward, for a beat. Adam’s gaze falls back to her, like a magnet, and her bag, covered in badges and random patches of colour, makes him laugh. Then he sees them. The drumsticks. “You play?” His eyebrows shoot up, excitedly, and he points to them. She groans and closes her eyes.

 

“Dammit.” She mutters, hastily shoving them back into her bag. “Yeah, I play. Self-taught, on possibly the rattiest kit in this entire state.” Her speech is hurried, and she refuses to meet his gaze. “Don’t you dare ask.” She warns him, and it’s scary, Adam will admit that. His heart sinks a little.

 

“C’mon, please? I swear, I’d make sure the guys weren’t dicks or anythin’.” The words come out too quick for him to correct his accent, and he thinks he sees her smile for a moment, but he is berating himself and correcting it immediately. “Audition, at least. I’d kill to see the look on Ronan’s face if you’re any good. I mean, you must be good. You have the look of a badass drummer, you know.” She almost smiles again, and Adam prays that he’s convinced her.

 

She rummages in her bag for a good minute before pulling out her notepad. She pulls the pencil from behind her ear again, and scribbles on the pad again. “I gotta get home, or my mom’ll worry. My aunts, too. Not Orla, though.” She’s almost rambling as she hands over the paper. Adam could jump for joy, but he’ll wait until she’s gone, for that. He takes it with a smile and a nod. “Call before nine or after five only, and if it’s not me that answers, tell them you’re from my school, or something. My family’s nosy.” And then she’s hurrying towards the bike rack, and he turns away and does a little leprechaun jump, before cursing and running back.

 

“Wait!” He yells down the road, jogging after her. “What’s your name?”

 

She turns, and he sees the flash of teeth in a grin. “Blue!” She calls over her shoulder, and speeds off.

 

Adam looks down at the paper, and wonders whether she was serious or not.  If it truly is her name , he thinks, it suits her in the oddest and most perfect of ways .


	2. 2

It’s during a rare period of peace at 300 Fox Way that the phone rings a day later. Peace, in Blue’s mind, means only one argument fighting to be heard over Persephone’s music. The cacophony of scents never seems to fade however. Along with the ever-present sage, today’s smells include sweetgrass and myrrh - someone’s done a reading on a young girl. Thankfully, Blue is perched on the couch next to the handset, reading the same play she’s read every year since starting high-school. The tinny chime of the phone snaps her out of her glaze-eyed state, and Romeo and Juliet snaps closed as her hand wraps around the receiver like a vice. She lets it ring, the sound an irritating relief. After three, Orla appears in the doorway and peers at her in contempt. “I’ve got it.” Blue snarks, snatching up the phone and stalking across the room. Her cousin is far too curious for Blue’s liking, and the door slams shut in Orla’s face just as Blue speaks.

“300 Fox Way, who are you calling for?” She answers, because there’s really no other way to deal with answering the phone for a household of women who aren’t all directly related. The voice on the other side stutters and seems taken aback for a moment. She hopes it’s Glasses, for a moment, and can’t quite figure out why.

“O-oh, um, is Blue there? I mean, this is the number she ga-” It’s Adam.

“Speaking.” She replies, cutting him off before he can make a bigger fool of himself. There’s the sound of a bed creaking, a muffled grunt, and she thinks she hears him confirm something to himself.

“Hey, Blue. I was - wait, it’s Adam here. You knew that, right?” Blue assures him that yes, she knew it was him.

“Alright, well, if you’re still interested in auditioning,” She isn’t. She never was, she tells herself. (It’s only half a lie.) What she’s interested in is irritating Buzzcut as much as she possibly can, and Adam’s difference from the others, the pale boy’s constant laughter, and putting Gansey in his place. “Come by Monmouth on Saturday. Kavinsky never took his kit, and I’ll make sure we’re all there. Even Ronan.” Blue smiles at the stress in the last sentence, glad to have left such an impression.

“Monmouth?” She asks, and Adam rattles off an address. Blue doesn’t bother writing it down, she knows she’ll remember.

“Here’s the deal, Cheekbones.” A sound of indignance crackles through the phone. Blue smiles again. “I get in, you tell me the long story.” Silence, while he strains to remember.

“It’s boring, too, you know.”

“See you Saturday, Adam.”

 

It takes Blue a total of fifteen minutes to figure out why Ronan had been such an ass to her in the diner. One: he is, as Adam told her, nothing but a total and absolute dick, and two: he is, without a doubt, absolutely and completely head-over-heels in love with Adam. She’d laugh if she weren’t still in the presence of the two biggest assholes in Henrietta, she tells herself. The pale one slinks over as the others huddle together, apparently arguing about something, if Blue’s to judge. The bend of their heads and harsh whispers certainly suggest so, at least.

“I’m Noah.” He says, and smiles at her almost knowingly, extending a hand. Perplexed, Blue shakes it with her stick-free hand and looks at him, unsure why he’s so mild in comparison to the others. They are all so different, she realises, and can’t help but wonder what the glue is that holds them together. “I just wanted to thank you for the other night, at Nino’s.” Noah’s voice is full of amusement and a strange hint of pride. “Ronan’s still fuming about it, Gansey’s as confused as I’ve ever seen him, and Adam won’t shut up about you.” She wonders if the entire world is part of some joke to this boy. Like Adam, he doesn’t seem like as much of a prick up close.

“Blue.” She says, withdrawing her hand. The single word comes out almost as a question. She’s about to say something else when Noah smiles once more, turns his head, and seems to glide back to his friends. Just as he does this, Polo Shirt (to henceforth be known as Gansey, she realises) stands up a little straighter, as though he’s about to speak.

Once again, Blue is confused by the magnet he seems to be for the other boys. He’s wearing a polo shirt again, the buttons undone and sleeves rolled over themselves once. An honest-to-God cardigan is draped over the chair next to him. She looks to his feet, blinking once. Boat shoes. Boat shoes.

Of course he wears boat shoes. She wonders if she’s living a real-life Freaky Friday, if somehow there’s a man in his mid-40s trapped in the teenage body.

“So, Adam here says you play.” Gansey’s hand sweeps towards the drum-kit and he smiles in a way that is so charming it annoys her, so she sets her jaw and nods once to avoid saying something offensive. “Kavinsky quit not long ago, and good riddance to him if you ask me.” He dresses like a middle-aged man and speaks like some kind of centuries-old wizard, but looking on him, he is the figure of youthful beauty, the pinnacle of adolescent invincibility. It almost hurts to look at him, the golden-boy of Henrietta turned punk-rocker. Not that he looks the part of punk-rocker. “So, you play something and we’ll see if it fits in, I suppose.” Blue glares at his smile, hating every moment that it grates against her rules.

Her boots slam against the concrete flooring as she makes her way over to the kit, smiling at Adam (genuine) and then Ronan (mocking) in turn. Blue knows she’s good. Has known since the moment she picked up her first set of sticks. She adjusts the unfamiliar kit, wishing she had her own. This one was nicer, more impressive, and she hated what it represented - the ease with which these boys seemed to live their lives. They’re in a building owned by seventeen-year-old Gansey, for Christ’s sake. It’s ridiculous, and Blue despises it. Doesn’t even know why she came - partly for Adam, who isn’t as perfectly put together as the rest, though Blue knows he tries ten thousand times harder to be, partly to anger Ronan, because angering stuck-up rich kids is one of the few things she enjoys. And finally partly (though she is loathe to admit it even to herself) because like the others, she has been sucked into the magnetic field that is Gansey, despite his pretentiousness and well-meant ignorance, despite the polo shirts and boat shoes. He is everything Blue hates about the private-school half of Henrietta.  
He is so much more.

Blue hammers out her frustration at the fact that she is actually doing this on the kit.

Noah laughs yet again, his face alight with pure mirth and exhilaration, looking over at Ronan as though her playing is the punchline of his own joke. He nods along and taps his fingers in time with her.

Adam watches, mystified, in awe of this girl and the way she seems to be perpetually flipping the world off. He’s pretty sure he’s half in love with her already.

Ronan catches himself staring at Adam, resenting the unashamed heart-eyes he’s making at the girl. The Irish boy scowls even harder than he had been, lip curling and shoulders hunching forwards. He kicks the ground and says nothing.

Gansey stands just apart from them, listening carefully, tapping his foot. He closes his eyes and hums under his breath. Blue catches a glimpse of him, and it seems to her that he’s caught between this world and another. Her final roll comes to an end, and all heads turn to him, like hands of a compass to north.

His eyes flutter open, and a smile, genuine and unbelievably joyus, comes to fruition upon his face. Blue feels like she’s finally seeing Gansey, not Glasses or Polo Shirt. She thinks that this form of him is worth the boys’ undying affection, their golden princeling, mortal, breakable, passionate, manic, every bit his seventeen years and no more.

“Adam, boy, I’m beginning to think you might just be prophetic.” His smile is still in place, and his glasses slip half down his nose as he strides towards her. Blue clatters out of the confines of the kit, sticks still clasped in her left hand. Ganseys’ hand claps down atop her shoulder, and for a moment his smile dazzles in her face. She looks out over the room - Noah’s laughs have subsided, but his bemused expression remains. Adam looks like an excited puppy, confronted with the prospect of two different toys, unsure which to direct his attention towards. All she sees of Ronan is the back of his head, but it doesn’t fill her with as much satisfaction as she’d thought it would.

“Welcome to The Raven Boys, Blue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you know, feedback is always appreciated!!!!! even if it's like... ur not writing adam right!!! (tbh i dont trust any of my characterization at all) okay thanks for reading much love
> 
> find me @ danielshrmans.tumblr.com


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blue worries, and Adam grows more distant. Gansey grasps desperately, feebly at the cords of their friendship, offering more and more, offering everything Adam needs because he doesn’t realise this is what Adam can’t stand and will not accept. Noah seems to fade as they crack apart, each day more translucent than the last.
> 
> Ronan fights and drinks and bleeds and dreams because it takes him away from all this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triggers for canon-violence and mostly-vague mentions of abuse

Everyone in town knew The Raven Boys. They were untouchable, unreachable, unattainable. Kings of the sunrise and sunset; godlings, princelings, a hivemind made up of three forms of broken and one of invulnerable perfection. Gansey-Adam-Ronan-Noah, a tangible thing of their own, a phenomenon of boyish abandon and adolescent adventure. Private-schoolers and townsfolk alike were in awe of them. They existed within a bubble, a solar system all of their own. The band came second to the comradery. They were a constant of Henrietta life: no one could fathom it to ever be different.

Of course, Blue had always revelled in being unorthodox. Rocking the boat, she’ll tell you, proud grin on her face, is her specialty.

It’s two weeks after her ‘audition’, and she’s already integrated into their tiny society, much to the delight of both Adam and Noah, and maybe, just a little, she thinks, Gansey. Ronan is mainly grunts and jeers and the back of his shaved head, but Blue thinks he’s secretly glad to have someone around who bites back. She drapes herself over Adam and Noah on Gansey’s three-seater couch that seems to only ever be fit for two and a half personal space included. Of course, that makes it perfect for their motley crew, and Blue nuzzles into Noah’s stomach and lays her legs across Adam’s knees, watching Gansey scrawl in his notebook and Ronan slap his fingers angrily against his bass. Noah’s fingers are spindly and they twirl in the fluff and frizz of her hair, and Adam mutters Latin to himself under his breath. Blue taps out a beat against Noah’s forearm, and he hums along, a terribly beautiful melody. Three heads turn to them, and Ronan makes a begrudging noise, something between a grunt and a hum of approval, and his line fills in the gaping hole in their creation. Adam smiles, his dead language forgotten, and Gansey seems mystified, content, proud of them, all of them, until Blue cuts out suddenly.

“What do you guys even write about? Do you even write music?” She asks, frowning up at Noah, who laughs, pleased as ever by her phrasings. Adam chuckles along, and Ronan even cops a smirk. Adam stretches up and tucks his hands under his head as though waiting for a bedtime story. He opens one eye at her and smiles with all the fondness he possesses, probably.

“Now you’ve gone and set him off. I’ll be here, napping.” A strangled sound comes out of Ronan’s corner. Blue realises it’s laughter. She frowns, and her head turns slowly to Gansey. “Shouldn’t have asked, y’know.” Noah murmurs into her ear between giggles.

“Blue Sargent,” Begins Gansey, eyes glittering with wonder as pure and innocent as that of a toddler, “What do you know of Welsh Kings?” His glasses and tan, elbow-patch jacket seem to fit him perfectly in that moment, a professor-in-waiting. Her eyebrows raise slowly and she shrugs, shakes her head.

“Well,” Comes the mutter from the corner, Ronan’s eyes glinting with a mixture of condescension and mirth, as well as a purer sort of prideful glee, “you’re about to know everything, Maggot.”

 

Adam is made up of sharp bones and dark circles; under his eyes, peeking past his sleeves, dotted up his arms. The heavier, more haphazard blotches are faded under white shirts, but terrible nonetheless. Blue worries, and Adam grows more distant. Gansey grasps desperately, feebly at the cords of their friendship, offering more and more, offering everything Adam needs because he doesn’t realise this is what Adam can’t stand and will not accept. Noah seems to fade as they crack apart, each day more translucent than the last.

Ronan fights and drinks and bleeds and dreams because it takes him away from all this. Because it won’t solve anything. Because even though he knows Adam will never want him, even though he accepted this long ago, Ronan wants Adam. God, Ronan wants him. Adam is in his head and glued to his bones, on his fingertips and caught up in his breath. It is so pathetic and so un-Ronan. It is angry and desperate and oh so utterly Ronan Lynch.

He watches as Adam searches for himself in Blue. He watches as Blue finds a part of herself she never knew existed in Gansey. He watches and says nothing because Adam can never know. He gives Adam a paste for his hands because winter is upon them and Adam was so self-conscious about it the year before. He races Kavinsky and wins because he feels alive, then, while being in Monmouth is being somewhere between dreaming and sleeping. Ronan is a dreamer, always has been and always will be. Never an optimist, simply living in his sleep and sleeping in his wake. Adam is that dream, and it is terrifying.

He lives with his secrets and sits outside Adam’s house at night in hotwired cars, watching the flickering TV lights dance in the windows, sick, waiting for something to happen, trying to gather the nerve to do something. Adam wouldn’t like that. Gansey would love that. Ronan would feel awake with his knuckles slammed against Mr Parrish’s jaw. Noah would worry himself even greyer than usual. Blue would raise her eyebrows and say nothing.

The first time he hears the yells he slams the steering wheel with his fists and hopes it breaks. He misses the horn, barely, and counts his blessings. The second time, he just feels ill and wishes he had hair to tear at.

The third time he’s half out of the car, his vision red, knuckles itching, blood burning sweet and hot, when the door slams open and Adam stumbles out. Ronan launches forwards, and he’s not sure whether it’s his tearing or the man’s shoving that does it, but Adam tumbles headlong down the porch stairs. For a minute it’s a soundless blur, but he knows he’s grinning and yelling and laughing as his hands slam into Parrish’s exposed skin, the purples and reds that he paints upon his canvas catharsis, and he wonders if Adam knows yet. He hopes not.

When the man finally collapses, Ronan steps back and admires his work. He is selfish - selfish, prideful, angry, aggressive, terrible, and oh so tragically in love with Adam. He turns in time to see the object of his passions staring at him, horrified and grateful, before the boy passes out.

Ronan refuses to leave his side in the hospital. The doctors stare at the purples on his hands and the blood on his clothing and say nothing. Ronan grins like a knife at his artwork and stares in horror at the calamity forming on Adam’s skin.

He swears on every fibre of his being that it will never happen again, and touches one finger to a bruiseless section of wrist.

He doesn’t see Adam’s eyelids flutter in confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, thanks for reading and comments/kudos/any form of feedback is welcomed!!!! absolutely and totally unsure of where the story is going tbh but it is somewhere i promise!!!
> 
> hmu @danielshrmans on tumblr as always!!!!


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blue winds down her window, hangs her arm out. It’s raining outside. The car is still stiflingly Gansey.

There are a kaleidoscope of Ganseys, one for every situation and two more for every one Blue thinks she has figured out. She adds _chameleon, chimaera, changeable, vacillating, fluid_  to the ever expanding thesaurus of Gansey and is still unsatisfied. She wonders which of the versions he shows them is the real one.

She wonders if there even is a real one.

Everything he wears clashes with the bright-orange worn-leather American-dirtbag look of his car. She wonders which version she will receive today. The Pig smells of gasoline and dust, as always, but there’s something different, more thrilling, even, about riding shotgun. The quiet in the back presses against her, but doesn’t oppress. The smell of Gansey - fresh mint, laundry soap, and something deeper, more pungent, like cloves and cinnamon, all packed into the musk that’s reassuring and irritating all at once. Like his personalities, Gansey’s smells are innumerable and indiscernible.

Blue hates it.

Blue yearns to understand it.

Blue has no idea how she ever went a day without him in it.

 

The Pig rumbles to life, and she realises she’s been staring at his hands on the steering wheel. She looks away, watches Monmouth slide past her window. Gansey and his boys have gone from nothing to something to everything at whirlwind speeds, she realises. Each and every one of them is enigmatic and magnetic. They are hers, and she theirs. Blue wouldn’t have it any other way.

And at the front of it is Gansey. He fills the space with his being. Blue winds down her window, hangs her arm out. It’s raining outside. The car is still stiflingly Gansey. He looks at her curiously. She looks back, staring at the wire of his glasses until he looks away again. She smirks, and stares at the tiny curls at his hairline. He’s an age old universe, an unfathomable speck in the world. He has no identity of his own. He is a whirlpooling mess of a black-hole.  
Blue cannot escape.

The silence presses in again, but this time it chafes at Blue’s neck like her Nino’s polo. Discomfort settles in at the base of her spine, stretching, yawning through her body. The rain is suddenly unpleasant against her skin. She needs to speak, needs to say something before something she cannot take back spills from her lips.

“What kind of a name is Gansey?” It’s too light a question for the torrent in her skull, the thumping of her heart, the dampness of her palms.

Gansey twitches in a way that is too dark for the question. “What kind of a name is Blue?”

“Ask my mother.” Blue deadpans. Gansey chuckles. The air is thick and empty and oppressive.

“It’s the only one that’s mine.” She frowns and squints, before realising he means his name. She says nothing, has nothing to contribute. “RichardCampbellGanseytheBloodyThird, and never may I forget it.” The words cascade like a waterfall, and he seems to emit an angry electricity with them. His hands are tightened around ten-and-two on the wheel. Blue knows it’s her turn to speak. There’s nothing in her head.

“Dick.” It’s not an insult, and there’s tense laughter in her tone.

“Jane.” He shoots back, his shoulders slumping. He pulls up at a red and turns to her. “That’s unfair. Even a terrible name befits you.” _Befits_. It is a Gansey word. She doesn’t tell him that Richard Campbell Gansey the Third fits him perfectly with his aquamarine polos and his tan slacks.

Right now it doesn’t. He’s too bitter to be Dick-the-Third, right now. Right now he’s nothing Blue’s seen before. _Reborn-unearthed-repaired-unveiled- **awake**_ is Gansey, and Blue is being dragged in, nothing to stop her.

She does nothing to escape.

The pause in conversation is pregnant. They watch one another. The light is green again but it doesn’t matter, not for the half-second that Blue thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is the real Gansey - a prince with a crown he craves and hates and needs to craft for himself, an enigma without anything creating his magnetism. A golden shell searching for a crab to take up residence.

It is heartbreaking. It fills Blue with a terrible hope.

The rain has stopped outside, and she tucks her head down to hide her smile, before twisting her body to face the window. Her face is half-in-half-out. She closes her eyes and breathes in the smell of rain-soaked-concrete. The boy pushes up his glasses, runs his tongue over his lower lip, chews on it, turns away. Gansey shifts gears. They move off, lazy, weighed down by truths that sting and heal, sting and heal.

Blue grins into the empty air as it whips past, and allows herself the freedom of pretending that she could have this, maybe, possibly. Her shirts are billowing and Gansey is accelerating and if she bothered to look, she would see him smiling without the layer of deceptive charm, one hand on the wheel the other halfway between her and the stick-shift, just comfortable enough to grab either.

She laughs and hoots and shouts at empty buildings. She is wild, alive. Her heart thumps, and only half because of the danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if it's disappointingly short, i felt as though this one needed to stand alone in terms of plotline and character devlopment - i PROMISE there will be more blue without boys and some noah soon, i simply need to figure out where he's going to weave in between AU and canon!!!!!!
> 
> as always, i'm on tumblr @ danielshrmans.tumblr.com, and also on twitter @itmevicky


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noah was the white decay of empty, cracked swimming pools, the grey of cigarette smoke, the orange-red-brown of the rust collecting on things once used and trinkets once loved.

Noah flickers through various states of aliveness and a million colours of life. To the boys, he is always in the background: a presence, a soft orange or pastel blue, calming but still vibrant if you payed it enough attention. To Blue, he was royal purples and deep greens, yellows that shone without attacking her eyes: complex and understanding, something that was hers as well as the boys’, but not hers and the boys’. When everyone else left Monmouth, forgetting about him, caught up in the tragedy of their love and the excitement of outside, Noah was the white decay of empty, cracked swimming pools, the grey of cigarette smoke, the orange-red-brown of the rust collecting on things once used and trinkets once loved.

 

With no one else around him, Noah wasn’t quite sure what he was but a vessel left fuelless and useless. Sometimes Adam disappears and leaves him with Ronan - it is exhausting and thrilling and adrenaline, pure adrenaline. Noah loves it, because he feels his heart slamming and his fingers shaking and hears his voice hooting and shouting, and he remembers that he is there, alive, leaving his mark. But Ronan has Adam and Ronan has Matthew and in some twisted way Ronan has Declan. Ronan has his ghosts, too.

 

When Ronan leaves to dance with their spirits or to tiptoe around the breathing, Noah has Monmouth.

 

With Blue, there is someone that doesn’t simply accept Noah for what he appeared as one day. With Blue, he is alive in a different way: in fondness and softness and an easy companionship. It is so different to with everyone else, except maybe with Gansey. But Gansey is so multiplicitous, it is impossible to define how Noah is with him. Blue is emotions and conversations and contact and fullness, wrapped together in a tangle of limbs. It is easy and it makes Noah feel like he’s colourful again. But Blue has home, has Nino’s, has Gansey (they’re terrible at hiding things, and Noah is used to fading into landscapes).

 

Noah is emptier than ever when she leaves.

 

It’s not that the others don’t care about him, he knows. It’s not that each of his relationships isn’t meaningful. They are still The Raven Boys, still a unit. He’s still integral. It’s simply that he has nothing outside the decrepit walls of the old manufacturing plant. He wonders if it’s sad that his entire life revolves around his friends, and decides he doesn’t care. They are the truest family any of them have, blood relatives be damned. They are obsessed and in love, all five of them, and it’s a thousand ways and one, and if Noah only feels alive with them around, then it is the best version of alive he can imagine.

 

Sometimes he takes his shirt off and stares at the marks that layer his torso, the ones that look like wounds and bloodstains, and wonders if he even is living.

 

The moment one of his boys or Blue walks through the door and touches him, he thinks to himself that it doesn’t matter, colour springing to life in his vision.

 

Noah Czerny: dead boy living, he thinks, and wonders if he should get a t-shirt made.

  
  


It’s the way Maura, Calla, and Persephone all  stare at her at once that sets Blue spinning. Her mother with a mingling pity and disappointment, Calla with all the wry amusement of someone who feels superior, and Persephone with all her usual mystery and curiosity. Blue barely makes it three steps through the door before they assault her with looks. Maura’s mouth barely makes it halfway open before Blue is throwing open the fridge, grabbing a yogurt, and slamming towards her room.

 

“I told you so.” Cackles Calla as she is fleeing, and Blue silently thanks God for her, before realising she forgot a spoon and cursing aloud. She slams the pottle onto her desk and falls face down onto her bed and groans.

 

Blue is sick of being told her future, sick of the cloud that hangs above her. Sick of being the girl with the killer kiss, tired of hearing prophecy, tired of watching the names of the dead being crossed off every few weeks. She feels like Antigone or Achilles or any other tragic hero, feels like Juliet as she watched Romeo die, and she hates herself for feeling like that every day. Fate’s a bitch, Ronan had quipped only that day, and her entire being had itched with the need to tell him that he had no fucking idea how right he was.

 

She wishes she’d never known that she was doomed to be the thing tethering someone to this earth. She wishes she’d never seen Gansey’s wraith that night. Someone so kingly should never be reduced to what he was, green and ghostly. She wishes she’d never served them that night, because she’d never have had this tie in her navel that was wrapped around the horrifically aristocratic, endearingly lost broken boy with crack-filled dreams.

 

Her door opens, and she looks up, ready to spout anger and frustration.

 

Orla tosses her a plastic spoon. Her nails are peach coloured, and Blue thinks the colour is lovely. She smiles weakly. Orla just shoulders further into the room and perches herself on a stool. Blue retrieves her yogurt and carefully avoids the fruit bits as she spoons it into her mouth. There’s silence, for a few moments. Orla inspects the papers on Blue’s desk - biology notes - before turning to her and smirking, her lips a bloody red.

 

“They’re insane, sometimes, you know. For all their ‘leave fate as what it is, no point trying to change it’ crap, they sure are trying to shelter you from yours.”

 

“Thanks.” It’s sour, but the smile that accompanies it is genuine.

 

“I don’t get you, though. Sixteen years, you never bothered to have any normal friends. I mean, normal for you.” She gestures towards the haphazard way Blue is dressed, “And then you fall in love with a punk band within a week of meeting them?”

 

Blue smiles a little, thinking of her boys. Oral is right, but she doesn’t understand it, not one bit. They’re all in love with each other, even Ronan with his surliness and Adam with his strange distance from the rest.

 

It’s not normal, not even for Blue. But it is perfect, aligned in a way that cannot even be fate. She shrugs at her cousin and smiles.

 

“You would understand if you were me.”

 

It a while after Orla has slunk out again before Maura appears. It only takes a minute for Blue’s frustration to reach break point, and only five minutes of arguing before all her hatreds and doubts return, and all she wants is to be reckless and stupid and a normal teenager for once, not to think about her fate or her poison or whatever she’s supposed to do. She knows messing with fate is never pretty, is always tragic and horrible, but her life abiding by fate is already all of that. She has no right to take that away from anyone else.

 

Gansey picks up on the second ring, and she cuts off his greeting.

 

“Dick,” She breathes, and he must know she’s distressed.

 

“Jane.” He responds, all sincerity and worry and not at all Richard Campbell Gansey the Third. _This is not allowed. This is dangerous. This is too close._

 

“I need-” _Something. Out of here. To do something stupid and teenage and unforgivable. **You**._

 

“I’ll be there in five.”

 

“Just you?”

 

“Just me.”

 

Orla smirks at her as she hangs up, and Blue glares, but hugs her anyways, because everything today is backwards and it seems right. She slams out of the house amidst more laughter from Calla and desperate yelling from her mother.

  
She feels wild and listens to the Pig growling down the street. When she clambers in and slams the door behind her, Gansey looks as impossible as ever and as wolfish as she feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda really eh about this one???? idk, it just feels weird maybe bc im running on coffee and christmas madness, let me know if you're in the same boat because i feel like i could re-write or completely take it down.
> 
> once again: danielshrmans on tumblr, itmevicky on twitter!!!


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it seems like he only goes to church for Matthew, so that Declan doesn’t get to be the only good brother. Adam’s never considered religion to be of importance to his life, so he figures he wouldn’t have a clue. Tonight, however, he feels like maybe there’s some kind of higher power in the room, uncontrollable, undeniable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much storyline in this (is there any storyline in this fic at all? not really), mostly kinda fluffy relationship development!!!

Suddenly, Monmouth is empty more often than not. It is unnatural and cold, and Ronan hates that which he used to long for. The loneliness is invasive. Gansey is always gone or hidden in his room. Ronan was always the one who had secrets; the tortured recluse. Now everyone seems to be hiding themselves. It’s so wrong, painfully so. 

 

The air feels empty, and no amount of drained and discarded beer bottles or brightly coloured pills can fill it back up.

  
  


St Agnes’ is silent and smells of dust, and Adam’s room is cluttered and stuffy even with it’s single window open. His bed takes up almost all the space in the main room, and his desk sags under the weight of books. The other boys don’t have to worry about having a back-up for the band - Adam still does. His room is everything his father’s house wasn’t, and it is a relief that leaves him hollow and aching for some reason he can’t figure out, or maybe he just doesn’t want to.

 

The sound of an intruder should worry Adam more than it does, stomping footsteps and half-shouts echoing into his room. Somehow, he knows who it is - he knows why they’re here.

 

He finds Ronan slumped on a pew, head tilted backwards, flask dangling precariously from his fingers. Adam knows he won’t drop it - doubts he’s anywhere near as drunk as he’s letting on. There’s something unbelievable about the way he’s sprawled out, the lines of his jaw and his shoulders and the flatness of his stomach, the angle of the one leg bent upwards. He is drunk, and Adam hates it, years worth of his own demons linked to a glass bottle and a pungent brown liquid, but he swallows his own spit and stomachs his distaste, lifting his chin.

 

“Isn’t there some rule about that?” He asks, taking a seat on the bench diagonally across from the shaven-headed boy. Ronan looks at him through one eye, a careful, practiced sort of harsh, reserved specifically for him. It used to make Adam wonder. Now, he is just tired of it.

 

“Well, it’s a sin I don’t have to confess, I suppose.” For such a devout catholic, Ronan sure is blase about his God. His words are slow, but not slurred. It’s something Adam is thankful for. Sometimes he wonders about the other boy’s religion - wonders just how dedicated he truly is. Sometimes it seems like he only goes to church for Matthew, so that Declan doesn’t get to be the only good brother. Adam’s never considered religion to be of importance to his life, so he figures he wouldn’t have a clue. Tonight, however, he feels like maybe there’s some kind of higher power in the room, uncontrollable, undeniable.

 

Today’s singlet has a drop shoulder, and Adam finds himself staring at the edge of the tattoo that curls over Ronan’s skin. It has an intoxicating sort of geometry to it, he knows, and-

 

“Take a picture, Parrish.” The words are a sneer, crude and accusing.

 

_ Shit _ , he thinks, and averts his gaze. He misses Ronan’s curious smirk and the self-beratement that is visible on the Irish boy’s face. In the darkness, Ronan can’t make out the red that slinks from his cheekbones right down to his chest. It burns, Adam knows, to be caught staring at something you shouldn’t.

 

“Where’s Gansey?” He asks, wondering if he will receive a panicked phone call from the boy.

 

“Don’t know,” Says Ronan. They both know, but neither will say it. Gansey and Blue aren’t as subtle as they think, and it prickles Adam’s ego enough to hurt, even if he knows that he and Blue were never going to happen. Strangely, it’s not that fact that hurts, he thinks vaguely. It’s not strange, not at all, he knows deep down, Ronan’s voice still echoing around the room.

 

“Noah?” He asks. It’s a pointless question, words thrown from his mouth so that he doesn’t say the ones he wants to, the ones he should, the only ones that are true.

 

Ronan just grunts.

 

It dawns on Adam what the god-like power he can sense might be.

 

Adam looks at him, and truly sees him, for once, thrown carelessly across the bench like a lion in the sun, or a snake in its den, but mostly like a king in his own castle. And he knows, not just in his gut but everywhere, the knowledge burning like a sun in his chest, gravity pulling it diagonally. He jolts and stands, clattering echoes resulting from the jerky movements. “I, uh,” He coughs, “I’ll get you a blanket.”

 

Ronan grunts again.

 

Adam wonders whether it was this sudden for him, the poison-fire of destruction, or slower, a flickering candle eating away at its wick.

 

By the time he comes back with a blanket (thin, ratty, full of holes) and a pillow (hard as a rock and Adam’s only one), Ronan is snoring, the sound ghoulish in the massive space. Adam slips the pillow under his head, the slight hairs bristling against his palms, and tosses the blanket over him. He tugs Ronan’s military boots off, and wonders how the action doesn’t wake him up. He realises Ronan must have put the flask away not long after his descent.

 

He makes his way back upstairs, creaking and groaning, strips down to his boxers, and throws himself onto the bed. What he doesn’t see is the way Ronan’s eyes flutter back open and follow his departure, softer than ever.

  
Adam leaves the window open and doesn’t sleep, terrified yet somehow unsurprised, the sharp jut of Ronan’s jaw and the dancing sliver of tattoo taunting him until the sun rises and he hears the church doors creak open and slam closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short one, and long overdue. i've been in a bit of a rut since christmas, so i figured i'd post this to see if it'll give me any inspiration!!! it's 100% pynch, which i assume is what a lot of you have been waiting for (because same, guys, same).
> 
> anyways, as always, feedback is appreciated and loved!!!
> 
> you can find me now @yachtgate on tumblr, and @itmevicky on twitter :)


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He speeds away, silent, the Pig roaring in their ears loud enough to drown out the pounding of their hearts, though his palms still sweat against the wheel, and her knee jiggles up and down, erratic. The racing of the car over tarmac eases away the dirt in her mind, the freedom of exhilaration just enough to keep her from doing something she couldn’t turn back on.

Every minute she spends alone with Gansey feels like a hammer stroke against the final nail in his coffin, and Blue hates how much she wants it. She makes a point of only going to Monmouth when there are others around, but it makes no difference to the butterfly beating of her heart in the darkness of 300-Fox-Way, the phone uncomfortable against her ear but the tin-crackle-faintness of Gansey’s breathing, quiet in the dark but the loudest thing in Blue’s mind. She is selfish and she is guilty and _God_ , it is killing her, how perfectly fucked up it is, because she is killing him with every shaky breath inwards and every thud of her treasonous heart, and he doesn’t even know it, and she is so, so selfish and he is so, so unaware.

Every second with Blue is like a rebirth, Gansey thinks, her presence a catalyst kickstarting adrenaline in his veins; every fibre of his being buzzes with mortality, reminding him how short his life could be, demanding he pay attention to every moment and movement, urging his hand closer to hers, screaming at him to forget the wrongness of it all, to bask in the forbidden fruit, to let himself have this. They are almost never alone together, and it is torture, penance for the way he can’t seem to shake her from his thoughts, for the excitement and danger of her and all her glory. He isn’t meant to enjoy danger - it has scared him since the wasps, in truth - but she is danger of her own strain, a whirlpool he cannot escape from, and doesn’t want to, no. He would let her drown him, if it meant he could touch her just once.

 

Blue crumbles after a week.

 

Gansey’s cellphone rings at eleven on a Tuesday and he’s certain it means a half hour of breaths hushing through the receiver, the silence of their separate worlds so heavy it could suffocate him as he waited for her to say something or ring off.

 He didn’t expect to hear her sounding broken and hollow and so _wanting_ , so longing, so vulnerable, but she does.

 “How soon can you be here?”

 “Illegally, in three minutes. Legally, it’s closer to seven.” He says, because he definitely hasn’t memorised and systematically averaged the time it takes to drive to 300 Fox Way, except he totally has.

 “Five minutes.” She argues, and he can tell she’s trying not to cry or shout. “Compromise with yourself.” It’s such a Blue thing to say, Gansey freezes with his jeans halfway up his legs, and almost crashes down the stairs of Monmouth, shoes in hand.

 “Tell me you’d be disappointed to see me any earlier.”

 “You want me to lie to you?” And then he hears a sharp inhale, like she’s confessing to a crime. He wants to grin, or whoop, or dance. Instead, he smiles just slightly, the kind of magnetic and mysterious smile he is damn near famous for, and opens the door of the Pig.

 

_I would live by your lies, if you asked me to_ , he thinks.

 “Five minutes.” He agrees, and hangs up.

 

Blue hears a millisecond of the Pig roaring to life before the line goes dead.

  


Five minutes later exactly, the bright orange Camaro rolls to a stop at the curb right in front of her house. She swings off of the neighbour’s fence and into the passenger seat in what seems to Gansey like one fluid movement, as though it is muscle memory. Her hair is mussed, her eyes the red of unspilled tears, her clothing as choppy and unyielding as ever.

 He speeds away, silent, the Pig roaring in their ears loud enough to drown out the pounding of their hearts, though his palms still sweat against the wheel, and her knee jiggles up and down, erratic. The racing of the car over tarmac eases away the dirt in her mind, the freedom of exhilaration just enough to keep her from doing something she couldn’t turn back on. She hangs her head half out the window and forces her eyes to stay open, the wind stinging and making them water.

 She stares at the land around them blankly until they are well out of town, surrounded by empty fields and dark skies and stars, and there’s a hill she wants to see off the top of. Her arm moves without her realizing it, and then her hand is encircling his elbow like a vice.

 

“Stop the car!” She has to yell to be heard over the engine and the wind.

 Gansey complies without a question, and she swings out the window and is sprinting across the patch of grass leading up to the incline before he can even turn the car off and get his door open, his seatbelt holding him back. He follows, far more careful and far more calm, wondering what it is that is going on in the mess of her mind.

 

Her yells reach him as he’s halfway up the hill. He sprints the rest of the distance, heart in his throat.

 

She is stood atop the rise, arms spread towards the heavens, screams fading into the empty air just as he reaches her. He watches from afar as she promptly sits down and makes no more sound, frown growing on his features as he realises he should have been far more worried from the start. It’s not long before he takes the few tentative steps to place himself behind her, and sits down himself.

He crosses his legs.

His hand comes to rest on her shoulder just as her voice drifts back to him, only slightly ragged.

 

“If you spent your whole life being told not to do something you thought was impossible anyways, because it might hurt someone, and then that something became possible, and it was the only thing you could think about, the only thing you _wanted_ , but it was a bad, bad idea even without everyone telling you it would end in disaster, what would you do?” She speaks so quickly and so quietly Gansey has to strain to hear, then take a few seconds to break up the spiel, then a few more to think about his answer.

“I’d say that seventeen is far too young to worry about fate, and the metaphysical fluctuations of destiny, and the perfect age to be a little selfish.” He responds, thumb moving slowly back and forth over her collar, brushing against the bare skin of her shoulders, blazing as it did.

 

Blue turns.

 

Gansey drops his touch and swallows. She looks to be on the verge of tears again.

 “I couldn’t handle it if I lost you.” She whispers, her own hand hovering in the space between them.

 “You could never, Jane.” He vows, because he is certain that she could only consume him and that would not be a loss, no, it would be everything, and because she is moving closer and on her knees and their eyes are level.

 

Her hand slides over his cheek and he thinks that if this is death, then he should have accepted it long ago, because it is so perfect and so sweet.

 

“No,” Her voice is a mumble and her forehead is resting against his, their noses bumping, breaths mingling, but they are not close enough, not yet, their lips will not, cannot touch, though their hands fumble at one another’s shoulders, tugging on shirts and ruffling through hair. “Not Jane. Blue.”

 “Blue.” He agrees, and his voice is so soft and so compliant that Blue thinks he would let her plunge a knife into his heart and twist it, and she can’t work out if that is grand or terrible or some sad, twisted mixture of the two, and she can feel the heat of his lips even if they aren’t touching her.

 

Mint and fresh cut grass and something heavy, not the fresh linen of his Richard the Third smart-casual costumes are what make her do it, draw her in too close to back out.

 

It’s almost anti-climatic, the carefulness of the kiss, the terror they share of taking too much or giving too much, but Blue thinks that if this is killing, then why did they make it so painfully sweet? If the burning of his lips against hers, his hand cradling her neck, her own twisted in his hoodie, if those are so evil, then she will gladly sin.

 Gansey’s heart is so high in his throat he’s sure she can feel it in the kiss, his eyes shut to the world, wondering whether after this, everything will change, or if nothing will and they will go back to pretending they aren’t this, aren’t cataclysmically locked together. He pulls back, just briefly, and opens them, looking for assurance, or emotion, or anything. Her eyes are as lost as his, so he tries again, giving a little more this time, lips burning and blazing, consuming and being consumed. The pads of his thumbs against her skin feel inevitable, undeniable, and he falls a little deeper into the black hole that is Blue Sargent, figuring if he is going to be destroyed, he might as well enjoy it.

If Blue didn’t know better, she might have sworn they were alone but for the whispers of stars and the murmurs of grass, but she did, and she would not let them steal this from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, so, this happened, idk how i feel it's kinda unedited, so you know, let me know if it's a little meh and i'll re-do it???? i haven't written on this in ages and i'm sorry, xmas and new years and restarting school has been a real bitch but this should be done and dusted within a couple of chapters!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Ayo this is like, my first fic for TRC so please let me know if you think my characterization is off or there are any errors (obviously this is not 100% canon lmao) and PLEASE leave feedback because that's always appreciated :)
> 
> You can find me at yachtgate.tumblr.com if you wanna chat/have any questions!!!


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